Secret Identity
by Hutchie
Summary: AU.  Hutch the reporter keeps trying to find out the identity of a certain hero...


**~1500 wds**

**Secret Identity**

by Allie

"But who IS that masked man, anyway?" Newspaperman Ken Hutchinson tapped his desk with a pencil and frowned. "And why can't we ever get an interview with him?"

Starsky looked up from his typewriter and stared at Hutch across the papers and typewriters that separated them.

Their desks were pushed together, both to make best use of the cramped room, and because they liked to discuss their stories.

Though Hutch found his friend occasionally illusive and standoffish, Starsky was certainly the best friend he'd made in several years. Sometimes they even went on interviews together, Starsky taking the job of photographer and Hutch taking the interview.

"Why does it matter?" Starsky adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and regarded Hutch quizzically. He shrugged. "Just because he saves people doesn't mean he has to be a public figure."

"But…" Hutch frowned. "Surely he should be acknowledged—thanked!"

Starsky looked back down at his typewriter and tapped out a few more words with finality. "Maybe he feels… safer, without revealing his identity."

Hutch stared at his friend, and wished once again he could understand the thoughts that went on behind his friend's cryptic blue gaze.

#

Hutch had been told before that he had no fear, that he should develop some if he wanted to survive. It was just that he got so caught up in chasing a story that he forgot to worry about his own safety.

Like now. When he'd ended up one of the hostages. Thinking about his safety now didn't do much good. But at least it was him with the huge barrel of a gun pressed against the base of his skull, instead of that waitress or the old man with the heart condition.

"We could do a feature article on you," offered Hutch, babbling now, just trying to think of something to say. In reality he had nothing to offer, and no hope. Except to serve as a distraction.

The police were closing in, but what chance did they have against a man with his brain fried on drugs? He wasn't thinking clearly—only his violence was clear and to the point. Hutch was certain to die, and probably more of the hostages. What a stupid way to die, if he couldn't even protect anyone else.

If only that masked man, that hero Hutch had been trying to interview for weeks—

But no, his luck had run out. He'd reached the end of his road. It was time to shuffle off his mortal coil, and if he was lucky, incapacitate the robber long enough in the process to give the police a chance to—

There was a sound like rushing wind, the door flew open and then the masked man stood there. In front of Hutch and the robber. The masked man grabbed the gun, moving faster than any human, any mortal could move—faster than a finger could pull a trigger—and wrenched it away from the druggie. His strength seemed superhuman.

One punch and the man was down, and Hutch was standing free on legs about as strong as Jello. For a moment, he faced the hero. He wore a dark face mask, had dark hair slicked back, and wore his usual tight blue bodysuit. But other than his speed and strength, he seemed like a normal person.

Everyone in the diner erupted in applause. The police burst in. Hutch opened his mouth to thank his rescuer.

But the masked man was gone.

#

"I heard you had a big day." Starsky met him at the hospital.

Hutch was fine, just a bit of shock, but the police had insisted he be checked out. Starsky had come to pick him up, because Hutch didn't have a ride home and couldn't really afford a taxi.

It was nice to see Starsky looking so comfortingly familiar in his blue jeans and red flannel shirt, and his softly curled hair. He looked at Hutch closely, as if trying to see inside his brain, worried about him.

"I'm fine." Hutch clapped him on the shoulder. "And once again, you missed the opportunity to see our mysterious friend. He rescued me, did you hear?"

"Yeah, I heard that, Hutch." Starsky's voice was soft, amused. "You ever think maybe you shouldn't get yourself in these situations in the first place?"

"Well I hardly did it on purpose!"

They walked out to Starsky's car, a flashy red car with a white stripe, a car that most reporter's wouldn't have been able to afford, but Starsky had saved for for years and babied as his most treasured possession.

The silence was companionable, until Hutch began to bemoan his luck again. "I still can't believe I didn't get the chance to ask him even one question!"

"Hutch, you ever think maybe he just doesn't want to be interviewed?"

Hutch sighed heavily. "I know, Starsk. It's hard to admit he just doesn't want anything to do with me or the press. I wonder if I'll ever even see him again?"

"Hutch," said Starsky softly. "I have a feeling he'll be there whenever you need him."

Hutch looked at his friend, and blinked. Starsky looked so serious and bookish and normal behind his glasses, with his kind smile and warm blue eyes. "You really think so? Why?"

Starsky shrugged. "Just a hunch. Besides, he rescued you today, didn't he? And you seem to have a knack of getting yourself in trouble. Just… try to be safe, okay?"

"I will," said Hutch. But even as he spoke, a plan was hatching. If he put himself in danger deliberately, maybe the masked man would rescue him. Maybe he'd get a chance to talk to—even interview—the hero after all!

He turned to grin at his friend. "Thanks, Starsky." _What a great idea!_

Starsky cast him a concerned, slightly suspicious look, his brows drawing together. Then he turned back to the wheel and paid attention to his driving. He took it meekly when another driver cursed him out.

"You should stick up for yourself, you know," said Hutch. "Don't let people treat you like that."

Starsky pushed his glasses up his nose. "I don't want any trouble."

What kind of trouble could Hutch get himself into? Hutch wondered. It had to be a real danger, and you couldn't manufacture that easily. It also shouldn't be something too stupid. It should seem real, so the hero would bother….

#

Hutch stood on the precipice, the top of the tallest building in the city two hours later. There was, he'd told himself, no time like a present. All he had to do was pretend he'd developed the urge to fly, and see if the masked man would catch him. Because the masked man could do even that: fly. He must be something more than human, he must be. And yet, he'd looked just like a man, not so very different from anyone on the street.

As he stared over the edge, Hutch felt dizzy and sick at the height. He pulled back again and gulped. He wasn't sure if it was worth proving his theory: worth dying over. Yes, he'd always done just about anything to get a story if he really believed it was worth it, but this was pushing it a bit far, perhaps.

"Hutch," said Starsky.

Hutch jumped and whirled to see his friend walking purposefully towards him, frowning. Starsky wore a leather jacket and a red scarf twirled around his neck.

He frowned at Hutch. "Don't you think that's kind of stupid?"

Hutch relaxed. "Yeah. It is. I'm just wondering if it would work, and if I'm stupid enough to try it."

Starsky walked up to him, and squeezed his arm, tightly. Hutch realized he was shivering in the cold breeze, had been for a while. Without a word, Starsky unwound his scarf and draped it around Hutch's neck.

"Thanks," said Hutch humbly. He was suddenly glad of the warmth, glad of his sturdy and steady friend, who might never save the world in a big way, but would save it every day with his own quiet, kind, humble deeds.

"Maybe I'll interview you instead," said Hutch impulsively, smiling at Starsky.

"What?" His friend looked shocked, maybe even a little scared.

"You know—'everyman on the street, unsung heroes whose quiet, selfless acts…'"

Starsky chuckled, and the anxiety left his gaze. "What nonsense you talk." He clapped Hutch on the back, and they headed back to the stairs.

The red scarf whipped in the sudden wind, and below them the dirty, beautiful city lay. It was protected by that mysterious masked man, even if Hutch never met him again. And he was somehow protected from his own obsession by this kind and unassuming man at his side.

They walked together, talking of inconsequential things, deciding what to eat for supper.


End file.
